


No Divinity but Thee

by klytaemnestra (klytae)



Series: Midgar Blues - A Collection of Shinra Noir [5]
Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:21:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26475592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klytae/pseuds/klytaemnestra
Summary: At twenty-six years old, having orchestrated a failed coup, funded a terrorist organization, plotted and schemed, and shown himself to be as ruthless as his father as to take what he believes is rightfully his, Rufus accepts that he will never be more than a spoiled boy with too much of his mother’s heart buried beneath a near impenetrable barrier of glacial indifference.
Relationships: Rufus Shinra/Tseng
Series: Midgar Blues - A Collection of Shinra Noir [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1915873
Comments: 5
Kudos: 47





	No Divinity but Thee

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Orphic Hymns.

It’s nightfall when they reach Midgar, and for Rufus it feels like anything but coming home. For 18 months he’s been locked away in Junon, called back to Midgar only on occasion to be seen. His own doing, he accepts, and the punishment he’s been given remains one of quiet isolation. The ultimate cruelty. Some weekends Tseng comes to him, and they close themselves off together in their private world, taking advantage of the quiet intimacy it affords them, but then Tseng leaves, sometimes for weeks, and Rufus is left with nothing but the four walls of his apartment and his own thoughts. For a man so accustomed to spending time within his own head, it feels maddening. He calls Tseng often, words exchanged over long distance phonecalls. Sometimes they talk about their lives, though Rufus must acquiesce that Tseng’s is a bit more varied and colourful and exciting than his own with the intrigue of Midgar and its dark alleyways, and abandoned warehouses. He knows Tseng’s not supposed to share the happenings of his job, but who’s to care what Rufus Shinra knows shut up in his gilded cage. Other times, Rufus sighs into the receiver, purring his desires, wants, needs, and when he hears the sound of Tseng’s breath stutter just so, he settles back across the bed, and touches himself, and asks if Tseng wants it too.

He’s been brought home for some charity gala founded by his late mother. A glitzy affair full of Midgar’s most affluent and elite, and in truth there are few places he would less wish to be, but duty is duty, and now that he has been publicly, officially recognized as Vice President of Shinra, there are certain tasks he must perform.

The helicopter makes its final descent in a sweeping arc, not to the Shinra building’s rooftop, but a hotel in Sector 1. The Midgar Grand. One of the original hotels built above the plate, it remains its most prestigious. A favourite of Theodora Shinra’s for hosting galas, and social functions, and when her life had been tragically cut short, the tradition of holding larger events funded by Shinra continued. He’s met by two hotel employees, the concierge, and one Shinra MP who escort him one floor below to the Penthouse Suite. It bears the name of being called ‘The Theodora Suite’ as a tribute and memory to their most esteemed patroness and guest. And when Rufus steps inside, there are the ghostly reminders a woman he often forgets ever truly existed.

They’ve left him champagne on ice, and a new tuxedo hangs in a garment bag from a hook in the corner, all custom tailored to his exact specifications. He pours the champagne, and moves to look out across the skyline.

He does not start when there’s a brief knock at his door. Knows with certainty that it is Tseng, come here to play his role as bodyguard, but Rufus prefers to think of him as this evening’s date. And when Tseng crosses the room a moment later, hands already sliding along the sinuous lines of his body, lips finding the curve of his neck, Rufus laughs softly. ‘Miss me that much?’

‘I’ve been thinking of you all afternoon, Sir.’

Rufus looks to the time. They’ll be late, he thinks. And pushes Tseng to his knees.

When he kisses him later he can taste himself on Tseng’s tongue.

Tseng helps him dress, deft fingers fastening pearl buttons, sliding mythril cufflinks through crisp fabric. Hands smoothing along his shoulders, and further downward until they wrap firmly around fragile wrists. No gloves this night, and Rufus watches with lidded eyes as Tseng dips his head ever so slightly to press his lips against the delicate skin there. His fingertips linger against Rufus’ for the barest of moments, as Rufus pulls away to admire himself in the full length mirrors, he turns then, one final time, to kiss Tseng tasting faintly now of lavender and mint.

And then they’re out the door, down the hall toward the elevator, the facade of bodyguard and Vice President firmly in place, even as Rufus thinks of the way Tseng’s mouth had felt around his cock, how later when they are back in this room he will spend what private time they have together worshipping his body.

Rufus slides out of the elevator to the flash of cameras. It is a secured event, but even the paparazzi have their means of getting inside. Rufus Shinra offers them all the same vaguely glacial charm. Socialites clamour about him, beautiful young women, many from powerful, affluent families, and he thinks of one such socialite, the one who he has failed in his own arrogance, and turns to Tseng, voice hushed, ‘I can’t stay here.’

Tseng nods, his hand resting at Rufus’ elbow to guide him away from the throng. Indra Vlondett, perhaps the only friend he’s ever had outside of Tseng. He remembers her laughter, the sharpness of her wit, and the passion she possessed. And how in his own scheming betrayed her. He smiles bitterly against the rim of his champagne glass.

‘Sir, is everything alright?’ Tseng’s voice a quiet reassurance at his side.

‘I was thinking of a friend.’ Rufus turns away then, wearing a mask of indifference, and feigned politeness as he shakes hands with some CEO. He’s not here to make speeches, he’s here to be watched, to be the face of Shinra, to sell the glamour of Midgar, and the future of Neo-Midgar. To carry on the legacy of his mother as a glittering celebrity all dressed in white. And most times he sells it well enough, but tonight the charade is a bit too much for his liking. There are words about his mother, condolences after all these years, those claiming to have known her, how tragic, and how brave and young he had been. Rufus almost laughs at the absurdity of it all, the farce of this night, and when he finishes his first glass of champagne, he pulls Tseng aside. ‘You have to get me out of here.’

‘You know you’re here to make an impression. I won’t tell you how to behave, but you know what is expected of you.’

‘To be paraded around like a prized chocobo, oh yes, I’m very well aware of what is _expected_ of me.’

‘We all must play our part, Sir.’ As distasteful as that may be. Flash bulbs erupt around him once more, and he turns disdainfully away, into the shadows. He can see from this vantage point that Rude is running surveillance, and knows Reno cannot be far. Three Turks spared for this event, he considers for a moment that it seems the least likely place he might need the additional security, but then it isn’t for his benefit that the other two are here. Tseng is an adequate spy, but he’s Rufus’ alone. The others are here to watch the guests.

A second glass of champagne finds its way into Rufus’ hand, as he turns back to Tseng. ‘I need some air.’

‘Sir?’

‘Alone. It’s fine.’

The hotel lobby is quiet this night, a few out of town guests waiting for the valet. He crosses the lobby toward the bar, needing something stronger than the champagne they’re serving at the gala. Tseng will be looking for him soon enough, reminding him of duty, appearance, his _role_ within Shinra. If he is to ever regain his place in Midgar, he must at least play the part of a dutiful son. He orders a glass of cognac, the liquor tasting faintly of candied apricots and saffron, swirls it along his tongue, hoping no one has the guile to snap any unwanted photos of him at that moment. The bartender knows who he is, and offers this one on the house. He knew his late mother, allegedly. Rufus smiles wanly against the rim of his glass.

When Rufus looks up from his drink, he is struck by the feeling as if he’s observing a scene from a parallel dimension. A blonde dressed in white seated at the far end of the bar idly sipping a martini. A hooker. He laughs just barely. So this is what Midgar thinks of him? A pretty whore. He can't begrudge the man choosing to work this lobby the night of this event. It’s almost admirable.

  
  
He can hear familiar footsteps approaching, but doesn’t bother to look back.

‘Sir. You’ve been asked for.’

Tseng seems to know what has caught Rufus’ attention.

‘This is what I am to Midgar, Tseng.’ There’s a bitterness in his tone. ‘The Shinra whore.’ He downs the rest of his cognac, dropping a few hundred gil on the bartop. He’s on his feet a moment later, sliding disdainfully away from Tseng’s touch.

Rufus is across the lobby, stalking toward the elevators when Tseng falls in to step behind him.

‘Rufus.’

‘I won’t go back in there.’

‘Your father--’

‘Fuck him. Fuck them all.’

And when they’re back in the room, Tseng asks, ‘Did you really not know?’

‘That all of Midgar wants to see me on my knees?’ No, no, he truly had not known. Foolish perhaps, but so much of his life has been carefully controlled, raised in a glass tower, surrounded by the most prestigious and educated and elite. A soft sound of disdain slips from Rufus’ lips. Is that all he is to them?

The bar here is fully stocked and Rufus intends to take advantage of it now that he’s away from prying eyes. Pours himself another glass of liquor, and one for Tseng, and when he returns, he moves to stare out onto the cityscape beyond these windows.

When he speaks again his voice is low. ‘All I ever wanted was respect. And look at this--’

‘You have my respect.’

Rufus lifts the glass to his lips. ‘It’s your job.’

‘No. You once told me that you wanted to earn that respect.’ Tseng stands then to shadow Rufus. ‘You are Shinra, Rufus. The only Shinra my Turks will follow. And when the time is right--’

‘You’ll kill him.’

Rufus shudders just the slightest when Tseng’s lips brush his ear. ‘If that’s what you wish.’

He goes silent, takes another sip of his drink, contemplating Tseng’s words. When he turns after a while to capture Tseng’s lips in a kiss, he is not gentle, nor patient. His hands are bruising against sharp hipbones, tongue and mouth insistent as he wraps his lips around his lover’s cock, and Tseng, pressed against the glass, can do nothing but twine his fingers into strands of blonde and thrust deeper as Rufus moans around his length. A glove hand closes lightly around Rufus’ throat, applying just enough pressure to make this experience a little more dangerous. And when that’s not enough, Tseng holds Rufus down against the floor and chokes him until they’re both writhing and moaning and shuddering their release against one another.

Tseng shouldn’t stay. Anyone with access to the hotel security footage will know he has not left, but tonight Rufus chooses to ignore protocol. He pours them each another drink, and resumes his vigil above the city, Tseng at his side.

The headlines the following day are vicious, and Tseng thinks to hide the morning’s paper left with breakfast before Rufus can catch a glimpse. The disdainful and spoiled heir to the Shinra corporation lacking the charms of his late mother, absent at his own gala.

And then comes the phone call.

Tseng knows by the shouting that it is the President. And when the call is over, Rufus says nothing. Retreating to the safety of the bedroom with a bottle of something Tseng assumes is brandy, and closes the door. Tseng gives him space, knowing that in these moments Rufus prefers to be alone. Leaves to go get him coffee from a cafe’ down the block, and when he passes by a kiosk on the street he sees the more lurid publications featuring photos, zoomed in on the faint scars, the speculation, the judgment, and stories woven. And understands. 

Back in his suite, Rufus stares at his phone screen, scrolling through various articles, the mocking criticism, and recalls his father’s words. A petulant spoiled child, it’s all he’s ever been, and at twenty-six years old, having orchestrated a failed coup, funded a terrorist organization, plotted and schemed, and shown himself to be as ruthless as his father as to take what he believes is rightfully his, Rufus accepts that he will never be more than a spoiled boy with too much of his mother’s heart buried beneath a near impenetrable barrier of glacial indifference. He laughs softly, at his own hubris, his own inability to break free from the way others view him. A brat or a whore. He suspects he’s both, yet neither. A whore to his own lust for power, spoiled and out of touch. He still knows so very little of the city he wishes to rule, never given the opportunity to prove himself.

The knock at the door breaks Rufus out of his quiet contemplation. Tseng does not pry, and Rufus is grateful for that. Nor does he pity him, or try to comfort. Instead he settles against the edge of the bed, with two cups of steaming coffee. ‘Here. You’re going to need it.’

Rufus looks down at the cardboard cup knowing Tseng can smell the alcohol on him. When Tseng speaks again his voice is low. ‘I should have made him stop.’

‘What?’

‘Your father. All those years ago. I should have.’

Rufus thinks to that moment, Tseng on the landing outside the presidential office. He’d been barely more than a child. ‘You were a rookie, you’d just have been a dead rookie.’ 

‘Do you know why Veld put me on you?’ Tseng asks after a while.

‘Should I?’

‘I’m not proud of it, but I was supposed to watch you with the intent to manipulate and mould you into a formidable leader.’

The sound that Rufus makes is a lot like a laugh, but it is devoid of any humour. ‘I should have known.’ He thinks of the way Tseng had always been there, someone he considered a friend, one of the few. And how he’s been played. After all these years to think--

‘It wasn’t right, Rufus. I never expected _this_.’

‘Make someone think they were in love.’ Though he thinks, no, it wasn’t love, it was lust, need, desire, their physical proximity, his own wants to be touched and kissed and fucked by someone he could trust. It isn’t love, it’s just … convenience.

When Tseng threads their fingers together, Rufus does not pull away. And when he speaks, Rufus lifts light eyes to meet Tseng’s. ‘Rufus. Veld told me to end it. He knew. He knew and when he told me to end it, I refused.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I saw something in you, a future. I don’t know if you’ll be better, wiser, less cruel, but I know you’re different than your father.’ Tseng lifts Rufus’ wrist to his mouth to press a kiss against the scarring. ‘You should never have had these.’

‘I should have trusted you.’ They have not spoken of the betrayal, not truly. Though it lingers between them, at times as wide as a chasm, but more often as a small fissured crack, its edges sharp enough to make them bleed.

‘Do you trust me now?’

‘Yes.’ And when Tseng presses another kiss to his hand, this time as if to swear his fealty, Rufus feels as if something subtle has shifted between them. And smiles.

‘The papers say I’m out of touch, ill equipped to rule a city I barely understand.’ He thinks of how he will not be his father, nor make those same mistakes. If he is to succeed he must know Midgar. ‘Take me out to see the city.’

They take the train down to Sector 5, where Tseng tells him of how the Cetra girl he’s been watching for years lives just beyond the squalour in a strange paradise of her own making, the flowers that she manages to grow in dead earth. She is not home, but Elmyra watches them warily from the front stoop. And when Tseng asks if he might pick a flower, she nods, saying how Aerith would never deny him, even if he is a Turk.

Rufus does not smile at her, and wonders if she knows who he is, out of his customary white finery, but when Tseng offers him a single lily, she waves and bids them a good afternoon. Even Turks might have the opportunity to find love.

They share street food in Wall Market, and mediocre beer, and as it begins to grow light, Rufus climbs up to the rooftop of some old warehouse between Sector 6 and 7 to watch the artificial sun rise around them. When the lamps flood the slums with brilliant lights, he thinks of how he might make this better, Neo-Midgar, a world without the need of artificial sunlight, where others might grow flowers, and there will no longer be need of strife between the Cetra girl’s adoptive mother and Shinra. To raise Midgar’s people from this bleak underworld, to a place where he might achieve a greatness that far surpasses his father, to rule a city of true progress with Tseng at his side.

_Fin_


End file.
